


On the Subject of Buffalo

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (BBC) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-28
Updated: 2010-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:12:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bradley arrives at Colin's flat just after midday, he's led down the hall and into the bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Subject of Buffalo

When Bradley arrives at Colin's flat just after midday, he's led down the hall and into the bedroom. Colin is padding around silently on feet that are bare and smooth, but he's otherwise swathed in layers of dark clothing, a match for his scruffy black hair. This morning Bradley had just pulled something out of the wardrobe which, he notices now, is a t-shirt with a pair of buffalo on it. They look unnaturally happy and Bradley is a bit bemused. He raises an inquiring eyebrow at them. They smile back in fixed pastel colours.

When he looks up, Colin has taken off his jacket and is holding a squeeze-bottle of lube, and despite the complete absurdity of it, Bradley feels his pulse quicken.

"Why, Colin," he says. "This is all so sudden."

"Hope not," says Colin cheekily. "I've got the whole afternoon free."

"And you want to spend it greasing door hinges, I understand. Home maintenance is very important, so Channel Four tells me."

Colin's laughing under his breath, making Bradley feel stupidly triumphant — stupid because it doesn't take much to make Colin laugh. At least, Bradley seems to set him off a lot, and he knows he's really not that funny. It's possible, he thinks, that they're both as weird as each other.

The lube gets set down on the bed. Next to go is Colin's two shirts, and then his belt. Bradley watches deft hands manipulating the buckle and strap; he wants to make a joke about how romantic this all is, but the words are fast evaporating in his throat. 

It's been weeks — months — since they've been alone in the same room together. 

Before he can stop himself Bradley says, "How are you?"

"Fine," Colin says absently, shucking his pants and crawling onto the bed. He settles near the edge where Bradley is standing, and looks up. His expression goes from expectant to something else, something more quiet. Colin does quiet very well; Bradley feels as though he's being seen right down to his bones.

"Good, that's — me too," he says. 

Colin reaches up a hand and slides it beneath the hem of Bradley's shirt. His hand is warm; he rubs it slowly over Bradley's stomach, fingertips smoothing over the soft edge of muscle. 

"Good holiday?" Colin asks.

"Yeah," says Bradley, his breath stuttering in his chest. "Not bad. You? See any leprechauns?"

"Oh, loads."

"Yeah?"

"Yep. Found one living in the garden. I've named him Bradley."

"He must be incredibly handsome and fantastic."

"For a leprechaun," Colin agrees. "Kind of small though."

His fingers curl down and pop the top button of Bradley's jeans.

Bradley can't help the laugh that shakes through him; as always, Colin's sense of timing is impeccable.

"Small is a state of mind," Bradley tells him.

Colin pulls the rest of the buttons apart, getting Bradley's jeans down to his thighs, exposing Bradley's dick hanging down heavily between his legs, flushed with heat. Colin wraps his arms around Bradley's hips, and for a startled moment Bradley thinks it's an embrace, a hug — 

"Down," Colin instructs. Bradley tumbles onto the bed, swayed by Colin and caught up by his own feet. 

His shoes and socks make way for his jeans, which Colin shoves onto the floor distractedly, but when Bradley reaches up to drag off his own shirt Colin says, "Leave it. Leave it on."

"Oh, god," Bradley begins, fully intending to proceed with _is there something you want to tell me about your love of inaccurately-rendered buffalo?_ He's derailed by the neat little smirk Colin shoots him, glancing up from beneath dark eyelashes, and Bradley is obviously twelve years old, because it makes his stomach clench and his cheeks grow warm, and he goes down onto his back like he's done it a hundred times before.

His legs jerk apart when Colin runs a palm over his knee and upward, fingers sweeping momentarily into the crease of thigh and hip. Then Colin's grabbing a condom from beside the bed and the lube is back, and Bradley forces himself to breathe deep and slow.

When Colin's fingers disappear from Bradley's sight, he looks instead at Colin's cock, straining as Colin's fingers push into Bradley in one slow, electrifying slide. 

Two fingers, rubbing and pressing briefly before drawing away. Colin wastes no time, rolling on the condom and nudging into place. Bradley catches his breath as he feels the hot, broadening push up inside his body, and the astonishing pressure he remembers from the last time — the first time — they did this. It had lingered for days, a kind of warmth, and Bradley had driven himself to distraction with the constant reminder that that was Colin. Colin had done that. He had let Colin do that.

That was ages ago. Now Colin is holding himself still, his head tipped down between hunched shoulders, panting lowly. When Bradley grips at his stupid, pointy elbows he shudders, and hitches forward a little, moving in lithe increments until he finds a steady rhythm. He rolls his hips, fucking into Bradley with a sort of careful indulgence, as though he's —

"Been waiting," Colin murmurs thickly

— missed this somehow. 

Bradley's heart gives a traitorous thump and he looks away, gripping hard with hands and knees.

When Colin slumps upon his chest, spent and breathless, Bradley slides one hand up and touches Colin's hair, meaning to tap him and get him to move: it's soft and yielding against his fingertips before Colin pulls out and away. Bradley's body is clamouring for a release, but all he can do is watch Colin sitting on the edge of the bed, tying off the condom and wiping a hand down his face. He feels — brainless. Quiet.

"Come here," he says, and Colin does. 

Colin smiles at the weird buffalo and lifts the shirt to kiss Bradley's stomach. He follows a faint trail of hair with his nose and takes the head of Bradley's cock into his mouth, so sweetly it sends a hot quaver under Bradley's skin. Colin sucks at Bradley like he does everything else: as though it's exactly what he wants, as though he needs to get it right. Long, lush sucks, his tongue curling, a pleased hum in his mouth. Better than last time.

Bradley's already caught on the edge and he reaches out to grasp Colin's shoulder. "Hey."

Colin pulls off and takes Bradley's cock in hand, quick little strokes that make Bradley's knees jump. He's watching Bradley, eyes flicking over Bradley's face and belly and cock, his own hand, and Bradley pants and stares back, stares at his mouth and its reddened skin. Unexpectedly, Colin says, "I hadn't forgotten." 

"What?" Bradley manages.

"Just. It's been a while."

"Uh," Bradley says, with some difficulty.

"I wasn't thinking, you know, that was it. Like it was bad or something." Colin licks his lower lip and admits, as if he isn't currently working Bradley over in mind-blowing fashion, "You taste good."

"Col," Bradley says helplessly, turned on and scandalised in the same moment. Their eyes catch and Colin's cheeks flush as Bradley arches his back and ruins his stupid shirt.

Once he has caught his breath and stared blankly at the ceiling for a time, Bradley adjusts his pillow and says, "So." There were things said a few minutes ago, by Colin, which seemed to be significant, futurely-important, ongoing sorts of things which seemed to call for a response. A discussion. Heartfelt agreement. "You like to have sex with buffalo." 

Colin's eyes scrunch up into a grin. "Something I picked up in Wales."

"Oh? Denigrating an entire country with your — your sexual quirks, now? You should be ashamed, Colin Morgan. Deeply ashamed."

"I am," Colin assures him, settling into the mattress. "Yeah, I'm really torn up about it."

"I can see that. It's like a painful aura is just drifting all around you."

"What colour is it?"

"The colour of shame. Sort of orange."

"I like orange," Colin murmurs. "Pumpkin, you know, that kind."

"Are you talking about food or clothing?"

Colin flops over onto his side and throws a comfortable arm across Bradley's waist. "Hmm. Probably both."

"Edible clothing, then. You kinky bastard."

Colin laughs quietly, his voice a low burr in Bradley's ear. "Next time," he says.

Bradley closes his eyes, feeling stupidly, stupidly triumphant.  



End file.
